Effortless
by Medea1313
Summary: House is, despite everything, paying attention. Post Hunting. Oneshot. Mild HouseCam.


A/N: I got the idea for this from a sentence in the summary for the upcoming episode "Need to Know" but I have not yet seen that episode, nor heard any spoilers about it, so the only spoilers in this are from "Hunting."

* * *

"You're negative," he says, throwing the lab results on her desk. "Congratulations." He says it mockingly, of course, or she thinks he does. It is possible she hears mocking in everything he says, because it's easier than hearing sincerity.

It takes her a minute. She looks at the letter, which has been hidden in her desk for three days, unopened. She looks up at him. He leans on his cane, looking pleased with himself. She wants to hurt him, very much. She wants to cry, because her test came back negative, and she's too much of a coward to have found that out herself.

"You opened my mail," she says, finally. Angry. Anger is the safest emotion to feel around him, because he usually deserves it.

"You're welcome." He is entirely unperturbed, already turning away.

"That's a federal offense," she says, stupidly. "That was — that is private information."

He turns back, cocking his head at her. "Oh by all means, take me to court. Then we can talk to the nice judge about how many pieces of _my_ mail you've opened. Do you think they'll let us visit each other when we're both in federal prison?"

"That's business," she snaps, trying not to grind her teeth. Trying not to throw a paper weight at him. "This is personal. You had no right—"

She stops at the slap of his cane across her desk. He is leaning in now, supporting himself with the heel of one hand. "You're welcome, Cameron," he repeats, and she stands up, because he's too close and she'll either kill him or kiss him, and both would be fairly disastrous.

"I have blood work," she says, even though neither of them is fooled at all. He is straightening up in a leisurely manner when she walks out the door. She can feel him watching her halfway down the hall. Measuring.

In the bathroom, she splashes water on her face and lets it drip down the angles of her cheeks, spotting her lab coat. She wants to go back and read the letter, but that would be admitting defeat. Now that he's involved, the news doesn't belong to her anymore. Her disease, or lack thereof, have been taken prisoner. "There are still tests," she tells her reflection. "Three months. Six months." She is clean, but she still feels dirty.

* * *

"You know you can start wearing make-up again," House says as she reenters the department office an hour later. She wonders if he's been sitting there, waiting for her. He's got his feet up on a chair.

She decides to ignore him, goes for a cup of coffee.

"Of course you could be worried that making any effort to look attractive would give Young Chase the wrong idea, seeing as how you did jump his bones and all. Understandable, but given the time frame, a little vain. I'm sure he's moved on."

She wonders where Chase and Foreman are, and if he would say this if they were in the room. Probably. She hates that she stands there wishing for male defenders, like she can't handle it on her own. She can handle it. She unclenches her hand from around her coffee cup and reaches for the pot. "Chase and I have an understanding, thanks for your concern." She pours, glad her back is turned. He's right of course. Not about why she stopped attempting to look pretty for work, but about Chase. She does worry, about signals. She adds milk.

"Oh, you didn't let me finish." She turns, finally, because she no longer has an excuse not to. He is throwing a ball back and forth between his hands. "The point I was aiming at is that, speaking for the white American male portion of this office, you really _should_ make an effort. You're not nearly as pleasant to look at as you used to be."

She smiles grimly. Ha ha, what a funny joke you made House. "Are you going to fire me unless I start wearing make-up again?" she asks.

"Can I do that?" It's facetious, she knows that, the turn of his head and the wondering tone of his voice. He's just trying to get a response, a reaction, because he's _him_.

She sits down opposite him and asks, "Why do you think I've been… making less effort with my appearance recently?"

He didn't expect the question. He bounces the ball against the wall, staring at her. She waits, and is very careful not to fidget, to hold his eyes. _Tell me you bastard, tell me who I am._

"Chase," he says. She shakes her head, slowly, no. He grimaces slightly. "Didn't think so." Another pause, and she wants to touch his jaw. She always wants to touch his jaw, especially when he is thinking. And the corner of his mouth. He catches her eyes, serious in his way. Diagnosing her disease. "You're punishing yourself."

She smiles, stands up. "Good guess," she says, "but I'm really not as stupid as you think I am."

* * *

She hasn't actually stopped wearing make-up. She has been sleeping less. The drugs have rather unpleasant side effects that deepen the circles under her eyes. And in the morning, she does make less of an effort. Not no effort, just… less. Once upon a time she wanted to start each day looking good because it meant she was feeling good. What was outside had to eventually soak through the skin. But that changed, in Princeton. As much as she hated it, as much as she hated to admit it even to herself, for a while now she had wanted to start each day looking good because he was going to see her. Because that day might be the day he really looked at her, might be the day he said something about her hair, or made fun of her shirt — the day he was paying attention.

When she figured she had no chance, when she looked at him on her way down from meth and realized he knew she had slept with Chase, and that he would never, ever, be second in anything, she finally gave up. Stopped checking her reflection three times in the morning. Stopped spending twenty minutes making sure she looked like she wasn't making an effort. She didn't think he'd notice. The whole point was pretty much that he wouldn't notice.

The fact that he notices should not mean anything to her, but it does. Stupidly, ridiculously, it does.

* * *

She tells Foreman and Chase the next morning, casually. "I got my first HIV test back. It was negative." Foreman hugs her. Chase congratulates her, awkwardly. They move on. Two more tests to go, she thinks, but she also knows that it was always a very small possibility. She didn't keep the letter in the desk because she thought it would say she was positive. She just didn't want to know if it did. She just didn't want to know. (And is House right, just a little? Does she come in with her hair pulled tight back because she might be sick, she might be imperfect?)

House comes in late, with a paper tucked under his arm. He says snarky things to Chase, and then looks her up and down and says, "That's better." She smiles despite herself. She really hates him sometimes. And sometimes, she really doesn't.


End file.
